Sparrow's Dream
by Hildwyn
Summary: Sparrow meets an old acquaintance in his dreams, who gives him a slightly different perspective on death. Post-AWE


**Title:** "Sparrow's Dream"  
**Author:** Hildwyn  
**Rating:** T (for themes of death)  
**Disclaimer:** It is not mine, nor am I making money off of it. I'm just playing with it for a bit, and will return them intact.  
**Summary:** Sparrow meets an old acquaintance in his dreams, who gives him a slightly different perspective on death.  
**Pairing(s):** Sparrington, Elizabeth/other character

**Notes:** Many thanks to DutchS, who reviewed this story for me, pointed out some grammar mistakes, and provided immensely helpful criticism regarding the plot. *hugs* Several lines in here are from the _Aeneid_, and translations are provided.

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Sparrow's Dream

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Jack Sparrow wasn't a man to dream. Sure, he dreamed in the sense of, "I'll be the greatest pirate ever remembered", but when it came to where your mind drifted when wrapped in the cozy embrace of somnus, he firmly believed that it never happened to him. He couldn't ever remember dreaming anyway, and his memory was as sharp as his carefully looked after cutlass.

And just as for every certainty there is an exception, this night found Jack sitting bolt upright in his hammock, with little doubt that what he had just experienced was a dream. Or nightmare. Yes, nightmare was the more apt word. One did not find themselves walking Davy Jones' Locker and consider that a dream, not with the pleasant connotation linked to word 'dream', and the the distinctly unpleasant connotation that came with nightmare. An unpleasant connotation that was far closer to the nature of the Locker than any dream would be.

He sighed and lightly rubbed his eyes through his eyelids, struggling to shake the last sleepy remnants from his mind. Unbidden, the memories of his dream-state returned to him, replaying his strange encounter.

***

It had to be some sort of cosmic joke, figured Jack. He'd gone to sleep, and "woken up" in the Locker again. There was no mistaking this realm, sand for as far as the eye could see, and it looked like this time, there might not be any helpful crabs to lend a hand...claw. The question was: how did he get here? He hadn't gone to sleep with any illness or serious wound that might make him pass during the wee hours of the morning, or at all. He was the paradigm of perfect health. And he would have noticed if they had come under attack.

They had gotten on a load of new recruits in St Kitts the other day. Gibbs had mentioned that one or two of them seemed shifty characters, and while he agreed with Gibbs on that evaluation, he hadn't much choice when it came to picking his crew. While one might think that being quite infamous and having a reputation for exciting adventures with the supernatural might be a boon to recruiting, it seemed that adventures with and against the _Flying Dutchman_ had done much to turn off many of the superstitious folks who would normally comprise the majority of his, or any pirate crew.

When Gibbs had casually advanced this theory of his, Jack had nodded, his keen mind already arriving at that conclusion a while ago, but pleased that Gibbs had been the one to speak it aloud, and confirm his own beliefs. He had replied quickly to the comment with, "their loss." Most of the crew was a means to an end, the end beingrecovering the _Pearl_. As long as they did what they were told, and needed to do, then their presence was fine.

Now, with no good explanations for how he had come to be here, he was left with the sinking realisation that one of his crew members, one of the new recruits, had most likely ended him with a knife in the back while he slept. So much for ever being able to find a crew that wouldn't stab him in the back. Figuratively and literally.

He slowly turned around in a circle, observing the unchanging landscape all around him, with its deceptively cheerful cloudless sky. There was no _Pearl_ in sight, no temporary loan ship that he had been on, no nothing. It was as bleak as the Locker was the last time he was here. His shoulders slumped slightly and he was left unsure as to what to do. He could attempt to walk and find his way to the shore he had escaped from last time, though without a ship he wasn't sure to what point or purpose it would serve.

But movement at the very least would do something to ease the perpetual stillness that seemed to settle over the Locker. So walking to the shore, where ever it may be, was the answer then.

After several minutes of walking, feeling the unfamiliar shift of sand underneath his feet, Jack paused. Normally when one was walking, even on sand, you would not hear the sand continue to shift when you were done moving.

He abruptly turned around and looked behind him. It was as empty as the Locker usually seemed to be, and devoid of anyone who could have been making those sounds. He narrowed his eyes slightly, and turned around to continue on his course. A couple of minutes into walking, he could again pick up that walking sound behind him...or, if not behind him, that delay in sound of a foot coming into contact with the ground that was typically characteristic of someone else moving as well.

This time he simply stopped and stood still, and the sounds moved up to right behind him.

"Listen, mate, I don't know who you are, but since this is my own personal hell, I feel obliged to point out that it's hell enough without someone stalking me," he said, resisting the urge to turn around.

He heard a decidedly familiar snort behind him, and when he turned around to look, this time he found himself face to face with whatever—whoever had been making that noise.

"Well, well, Commodore," Jack said with a grin, "I didn't expect you to be the sort to end up here, but apparently there is some justice in the world."

"Me, end up...here?" Norrington said looking around, "Not exactly my first choice of a location for meeting with you, but I suppose it will have to do. I knew you had a twisted mind, Sparrow, but I had no idea how twisted."

Jack frowned. If he was going to be stuck with Norrington in the Locker, for eternity, or however long it took him to get out, which would be quite long indeed when Will figured out exactly who the father of his son was, he would have appreciated a version of Norrington who wasn't a few pins short of of keeping his wig on. At least then, while the company wasn't going to be the most pliant, the conversation would have been entertaining.

It was all better than the goat anyway. He shuddered at that thought.

"Look, mate, just because you get to show up in my own personal hell, doesn't mean you get to critique it. So if you don't mind," he took a step back in the direction he had been heading, and gestured for Norrington to follow.

"It won't do any good," Norrington said.

"Well it will do me good, so, unless you fancy spending your time all by your onesies?" Jack said, gritting his teeth. He wouldn't have figured Norrington to be the entirely pessimistic one here, or if he was, he would have hoped that he would at least have the decency to keep it to himself. When Norrington shrugged and stepped towards him, Jack pivoted again, and continued walking. To nowhere.

_Damn_, Jack thought, _the pessimism is catching_.

"I won't ask you why here, but there is a purpose to this meeting," Norrington started.

"Really?" Jack said, wondering if he should bother to feign any interest in this conversation.

"I.." Norrington stopped speaking to clear his throat; it was a tick of Norrington's that Sparrow had never particularly cared for, "I know that you inspire great loyalty amongst your men," (Jack snorted), "and that they would willing risk their lives to bring you back from the dead. Now while my associates during life were of a slightly different calibre, and I hope not to place myself in too high regard when I say that I fear some of these friends of yours, who are also my associates, might take an action they may later come to regret if they thought it might give me another cha--"

"You know your problem, James?" Jack said, not bothering to give the former Navy man a chance to answer, "You talk too much."

"I do?" Amazing how Norrington put so much indignation into two syllables.

"Yes."

"Not the least hypocritical that," Norrington's body had stiffened, and his face had acquired a defensive expression. Norrington had never taken to well to when Jack had pointed out his faults. Granted, this was usually when they had an audience, and he knew full well that Norrington especially hated to have his shortcomings pointed out in front of others (which Jack did then take extra care to deliberately point a few out in those circumstances). But between those times and others, and observation of his posture, he could tell when Norrington was more genuinely affronted. And this did seem to be one of those times. If he wanted to be upset, he could give him a real reason to be upset.

"You know, some people said they preferred you when you were sarcastic. I never really liked it myself."

"So sorry to disappoint."

"Again, sarcasm," Jack stopped and turned on Norrington, "You," he waved his hands around, "cannot get to the point. You use big words, and long complex sentences, because you think others will judge you to be intelligent based off of that."

"This coming from the man who knows what 'ecumenically' means," There was still a bite to Norrington's words.

"I use those words when I have reason, and when it serves my purpose. You use them and look like a snob. Is it any wonder that I've had more women fawning over me than have ever gone after you?"

"Now you're distracting from the point," Norrington narrowed his eyes at Jack.

"You may not see how it all connects, but then again you were never good at seeing the bigger picture," Jack could easily bring up at any moments notice, several examples, just from his own encounters with the man that would prove it.

"Actually, in this case I think it's you whose missing the 'bigger picture.'"

"The bigger picture here," Jack said, ignoring Norrington's response, "is that if this keeps going on, and you fail to get to the point, if we were not already dead, we'd kill each other. Since we are dead, our options are limited, and I'd rather focus myself on getting out of here, not on figuring out a way to kill the already dead."

"You're not dead."

That caught Jack's attention.

"What?"

"You're not dead," Norrington repeated, "You're alive, I just...needed some way to communicate with you."

"Am I supposed to say that I'm flattered here, mate? Because dead men should refrain from sharing their tales with the living." It wasn't just a pirate axiom, it was a universal truth. One that didn't apply to himself, naturally.

"Yes," Jack was surprised by Norrington's response. He would have expected the Formerly Living Commodore to have a bit more self-preservation instinct than that.

"You're agreeing with me now?"

"The dead should stay dead," Norrington said, as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world. Somehow though, Jack couldn't help but shake the feeling that something had gone horribly awry with this discussion.

"I'm afraid this conversation has been blown horribly off course now, and I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"I was trying to tell you this, but you would not let me finish," Norrington said, with a trace of a sigh, "I'm dead. Gone. Moved on. I have no desire to return to the living, and that is the way things should be. But there are those who feel guilty over my death, and who may try to bring me back, and I need you to let them know that I don't want that. I have my peace now."

Jack was unsure why this was being said to him. If Norrington was that eager to give up on coming back to life, that was hardly any of his affair. He narrowed his eyes and asked, "This is for Lizzy and Will, aye?"

"Yes."

"Oh. That changes things a bit." Changed things because he was no one's good little messenger, and even if the man was dead, that gave him no right to order him around, especially since he had never had that when he was living.

"You're just dreaming, and I felt it was better to appear to you here than appear on the _Pearl _and give Gibbs more reason for his superstitious beliefs."

"Ah, so the dead don't know everything," Jack said with a smirk, "otherwise you'd know I'm not on the _Pearl_."

"Where are you then?"

"Another ship," Jack said, "temporarily, of course," he amended. He'd spent long enough to get her back the first time, he wasn't going to let the same man get away with it a second time.

"Of course."

"Well then. You've given me your message, I'll pass it on to Romeo and Juliet if I see them. So, can we end this now?" His disinclination to play messenger aside, if he saw Elizabeth, he'd be sure to pass it on. Now he was just interested in ending this now, and leaving behind all this weirdness.

"The message is intended for one other," Norrington, still proving his inability to get through his points in a quick and efficient manner.

"Well, let's have at it then: who?"

"You."

He had to be joking.

"Me?" Jack asked.

"I don't want you to bring me back either."

"And I would do that, why?"

Norrington smiled in response, but it faded and his tone became serious,"I mean it, Jack. I don't want to come back."

"And I won't bring you back," Jack said, rubbing at his temples, "So...are we...finished?"

"If you are," Norrington said, a trace of disappointment in his voice.

Jack opened his mouth to respond, however he never got that far, finding himself sitting bolt upright in his hammock, on his temporary vessel.

***

Jack shook his head. It was, suffice to say, an odd dream. One that did not merit repeating. Of course, if it was all a dream, he was sure that people might be inclined to accuse it of having some sort of deeper meaning.

The whole dream seemed vaguely familiar though, like he had seen it all before, experienced it before, or that he'd heard of it. Not knowing why it was so familiar was going to be a point of frustration, so he disentangled himself from his blankets and hammock, and went to his sea chest. Digging through it, in search of some sort of object that may be a clue to the familiarity, he tossed items to the deck around him. Reaching the bottom of his dunnage, he decided that he may have to admit defeat on this.

He reached to his side to put his belongings back into the chest. He paused when his hand came to rest on one of the leather tomes he had carelessly tossed to the ground. It lay open, so that he was not immediately sure as to which one it was. He picked it up, and inspected the writing, his fingers tracing its yellowing pages.

_'Quaerenti et tectis urbis sine fine ruenti_

_infelix simulacrum atque ipsius umbra Creusae_

_uisa mihi ante oculos et nota maior imago." (1)_

It was the _Aeneid. _Ironically enough, it was the passage where Aeneas rushed back into burning Troy to try and find his wife. He'd lost her, and came back to find her, but it was already too late. Her ghost appeared to him, and told him to stop searching for her.

Jame—someone had once said that he felt that passage was about trying to rid oneself of guilt. If one was truly in love with someone, he had said, they would go to any ends to save them and bring them back. But Aeneas did not wish to, and felt guilty because he was not showing the proper dedication to his wife. That he had fabricated the whole story of her ghost appearing to him, and telling him to forget about her, so that people would find no fault with his continuing on.

Jack wasn't a fan of reading all that much into stories, and had dismissed the comment as utter nonsense. For him, it was more of a matter of taking it at face value. To have someone appear to you, and to tell you to not seek them was exactly that. It wasn't a challenge to try and save them and bring them back. If it was even really them to begin with.

And he was going to keep telling himself that.

Scowling at the book, and now wishing that he'd left well enough alone and not bothered to figure out why the dream was familiar, he picked it up and pitched it across his cabin. Stupid classical literature. All it did was hang around in one's mind until your conscience decided to rear it's ugly head, and use it to try and guilt you into taking action. And there was no way he wanted to end up like some classical figure--look what happened to Oedipus.

After thinking that through for a second, Jack made a mental note to keep his mother's shrunken head somewhere else than hanging down from the front of his belt.

But to the matter at hand—it was a dream. And that was all it was. A dream where one could not even be sure that it was Norrington's ghost who had decided to pass on that message. Norrington was probably enjoying himself in whatever heaven it was that over eager pirate hunters ended up in. Enjoying himself...and not wanting to come back to life.

This was far too late, or too early, he decided, to strain himself by attempting to figure out the meaning of the dream. Or if any of it bore any relation to what he must do.

No, what he needed to do right now, was put himself in the proper mood. The proper, not entirely sober mood. Moving forward to seek his special stash of rum, he nearly tripped and fell to the floor. He looked down to see what he had caught his foot on, and there it was—the book again. Sighing he picked it up and was about to toss it again towards his sea chest, when his eyes, of their own accord, drifted down the page.

"_...si potuit manis accersere coniugis Orpheus  
Threicia fretus cithara fidibusque canoris..." _

Jack swallowed as he looked down at the words. This one poem was far more trouble than it was worth. Perhaps young Will Turner III would enjoy the book? Yes, Latin had never done a young boy any harm. The harm it did was apparently only limited to pirates whose subconscious was in overdrive.

Fortunately, though, he knew just the cure for that. Rum may not be a permanent fix, but it did a hell of a job letting you forget things in the short run. And as long as his stash was there, he could keep on forgetting that dream.

"_...if Orpheus was able to summon the spirits of his wife_

_relying on Thracian cithara and melodious lyres..." (2)_

Fin.

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**Notes:**

(1) 'Seeking through the houses of the city and rushing without end,

the unhappy form and spirit of Creusa herself

appeared to me before my eyes, her image larger than (the one) known"

(Vergil, Aeneid; ii, 771-33)

(2) Vergil, Aeneid; vi, 119-20


End file.
